


Open 'Til Midnight

by torevolution



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Found Families, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Record store au, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-09-12 12:20:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9071335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/torevolution/pseuds/torevolution
Summary: “I will be fine," Lafayette assures them.  "George’s rules are very simple: count the money twice, and do not touch his stereo.  Or his alcohol.”A responsibility like this requires the obedience of a saint.... it's an Empire Records-flavored Hamilton Remix, for all of your nineties nostalgia needs.





	1. Roll of the Dice

It’s finally happening.

Lafayette grins, eyeing the key ring that dangles inches in front of his face.  By all accounts, the keys are perfectly ordinary, and the key chain itself sports a generic black-and-white Fender guitar logo.  But, Lafayette reminds himself, it’s not the keys that matter; it’s what they _represent._

Somewhere in the background, a conversation is happening.  Lafayette can hear voices--

“You think it’s possible for him to hypnotize himself?”

\-- and has a vague sense that he’s being talked about--

“Dunno.  Should probably stop him, though, just in case.”

\--but he doesn’t care.  He’s stretched out on the couch in the back room of the store, admiring his newest trophy, and he’s not listening to a word his coworkers are saying because it’s finally happening.  George has entrusted him with the literal keys to the kingdom, and--

“Laf.  Yo, Laf.  LAF.”  

Under ordinary circumstances, Lafayette might be annoyed that Laurens is standing over him, snapping his fingers in his face.  He might be annoyed that Hercules is snickering into his sleeve, laughing at his expense.  But these are not ordinary circumstances, and nothing is going to ruin his mood.  

“Yes, Laurens?” he drawls out, stretching lazily.  The keys jingle as he extends his arms over his head.

“We’re clocking out,” Laurens says.  “Time to go.”

“Midnight already?  I did not realize.”

“Yeah, man,” Hercules laughs.  “We noticed.  Listen, everything’s good to go.  I counted out my drawer-- it’s on Washington’s desk.  You need anything else from us?”

“Non,” Lafayette responds, getting to his feet.  “I will be fine.  George’s rules are very simple: count money twice, and do not touch his stereo.  Or his alcohol.”

“I dunno,” Laurens says, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.  “That sounds like a big responsibility.  How will you be able to remember it all?”

“A responsibility like this requires the obedience of a saint,” Lafayette says solemnly.  “And so, a saint I shall be.”

“Always with the drama,” Hercules sighs, shaking his head.  “C’mon, Laurens, I’ll give you a ride home.”

 

\-----

 

Lafayette is true to his word.  He counts the money twice, and a third time for good measure.  He does not touch the stereo.  

And it’s ginger ale, not scotch, that he’s sipping out of one of George’s fancy monogrammed rocks glasses as he leans back in his boss’ chair, feet propped on the desk.

So maybe this last part is a bit much, Lafayette muses as he traces the initials etched into the glass with one fingertip.  But then, he’s always had a flair for the dramatic, and it’s not as if he won’t wash the glass when he’s done with it.  Still, as much as he’s enjoying this, the fact remains that it _is_ getting late.  With a sigh of regret, Lafayette sets down his glass and turns his attention to the green bank deposit pouch sitting on the desk.  All that’s left to do is to secure the money in the safe, clean up after himself, and lock the doors on his way out.

Later, he would say that he had only wanted to leave a note for George, to tell him that all had gone well-- of course he had no desire to snoop inside his boss’ desk drawer.  That would be dishonest, an invasion of privacy.

And yet there it is: the open desk drawer, and atop a stack of paperwork, a document with gaudy scarlet-and-gold letterhead that catches Lafayette’s eye.  In the top corner, a slick corporate logo is wrapped around a stylized crown.  

  _EMPIRE RECORDS  
_ _Franchise Option Agreement_

 “Mon Dieu,” he breathes.  “Non, this cannot be right.”

Behind the contract, bound in one of those plastic report covers, is even more incriminating evidence.  There are blueprints for renovations, digitally rendered mock-ups of the new storefront, a timeline for the takeover… and time is almost up.

“Non,” he says again.  “George would never--”

But George is only part-owner of the Revolution Record Exchange, and a small part at that.  Seabury, _ce cul_ , is the majority owner-- the store’s been in his family for decades-- so he’s the one with the right to make such a decision.  Would Seabury be so likely to sell out?

Yes.   _Bien sur_ , of _course_ he would.

Lafayette drops the stack of papers back into the drawer and slams it shut.  He’s struck by a sudden, stupid, irrational flash of heart-hammering guilt.  He feels like he’s actually been caught, like George is standing in the doorway, his heavy brows drawn together in the scowl typically reserved for Alexander.

He shouldn’t have looked.  George will be upset with him when he finds out, and he always finds out.  Lafayette is already upset enough-- and as soon as the others see him, they’ll know something is wrong.  He’ll have to tell them.  Then _they’ll_ be upset, and everything will be ruined, and…

Non.  This will not do.  

Lafayette stands abruptly and, in an impulsive, dizzy haze, grabs the bank deposit pouch.  He doesn’t allow himself to think twice as he flees the office, or as he slips out the back door of the store, or as he jams the keys into the ignition of his motorcycle and twists hard, gunning the engine.  He has no time for second-guessing.

He must take action.


	2. The Honeymoon Is Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Honeymoon is Over/ I Don’t Want to Live Today

When John rounds the corner onto Division Street, Peggy is already waiting for him at the end of the block.  Leaning casually on the plate-glass storefront window, one Converse-clad foot resting flat against the brick wall, she looks like a magazine ad or something-- the picture of consummate coolness.  

As he approaches, John takes note of other details: the oversized headphones she’s sporting, how her hands are shoved deep in her hoodie pockets, the way her curly hair is piled atop her head in that messy-on-purpose look that only girls seem able to achieve.  This’ll make a good sketch later, if he can find the time, so he tries to memorize as much as he can.

When he enters Peggy’s line of sight, she grins up at him.  “Mornin’, boss.”

“Not the boss,” John shoots back reflexively.  It’s an old argument.

Peggy snorts.  “Fine, then.  Assistant boss.”

It’s on the tip of his tongue to tell her that as of last night, it’s officially Lafayette who’s the assistant boss.  Before he can get the words out, though, John’s eyes are drawn to the narrow alley to the left of the record store, and the motorcycle parked there.

“Look,” he says to Peggy, motioning to the alley.  

Lafayette is slumped over the motorcycle’s handlebars.  His face isn’t visible, hidden by his crossed forearms and the riot of curls sprung loose from their customary ponytail.  It looks like Laf is-- is he-- sleeping?

“What…?” Peggy frowns.  She kicks away from the wall, making a beeline for the motorcycle, and John trails after her.  He can’t for the life of him figure out how anyone could possibly sleep like that, though if anyone could, it would be Laf.

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty,” John teases, nudging the front tire with the toe of his sneaker.  It’s enough to jostle the bike’s frame, which in turn jostles Lafayette, who startles awake.  His head flies up and the bike wobbles, dangerously close to tipping.  John makes a grab for him just in time.  “Whoa, whoa.  Easy, man.”

“Hein-?” Lafayette mumbles sleepily.  “Quelle heure est-il?”

Right, so they’re doing this.  John switches over to French, the better to communicate with the sleep-deprived Laf.  “Hey, tout va bien pour toi?” he says gently.  

“Ouais, ouais.”  

Laf _says_ yes, but John really doesn’t think he’s actually alright.  He glances over at Peggy to see what she makes of all this.

“Francophones,” she complains.  Before John can protest, she waves him off.  “I know, I know.  Swiss boarding school.  God, Laurens, I’m supposed to be the token rich kid here.”

“Sorry…?” he offers.

“Yeah, whatever,” Peggy says dismissively.  Then her voice softens.  “Laf-- English, please.  Did you sleep here last night?”

Lafayette’s eyebrows furrow as he processes the request.  “Yes…?” he says slowly, as though he’s testing the answer out.  “Well, a part of it.”

“What’s wrong?  Did you have a fight with Wash?” Peggy presses.  “You know you could have called one of us.”

“I did not fight with George.”

“Then what the hell are you doing here?” John asks.  At first he’s not sure if Lafayette has heard him-- there’s a long pause.  Laf’s not looking at either him or at Peggy, but rather staring off into the distance.  If John is totally honest, it’s a little disconcerting.

“Something happened to me last night,” Lafayette finally announces.  He pauses, seemingly for dramatic effect, then adds:  “In Atlantic City.”

As if that explains things.  

“Oh,” John says, deciding to just go with it.  “You went to Atlantic City?”  It’s, like, a two-hour drive down there-- not exactly the kind of thing you just decide to do after getting out of work after midnight.  It’s weird, even for Laf, which is saying something.  

There’s another long pause before Peggy can’t stand Laf’s silence anymore.  “Did you win anything?” she prompts.

“Non, I did not win anything.  So!  My dear John Laurens.  Margarita Schuyler,” Lafayette says formally, saluting each of them in turn.  “Mes amis, I tell you that it has been a privilege to serve at your side.  Au revoir-- until we meet again.”

With that, he starts the motorcycle’s engine.  

John splutters, “Wait, what?” at the exact moment that Peggy cries, “Laf, wait!”  If not for the immediacy of the situation, John might’ve laughed at the coincidence-- Alexander’s right, she’s totally his work wife-- but Lafayette is already angling the bike toward the street and preparing to take off.  

So John tries again, raising his voice to be heard over the noise of the motorcycle.  “Shit, man, what happened?”

Lafayette pauses, lips pursed.  He thinks for a long moment, then declares:  “Je ne regrette rien!”

“What?  Laf, what did you do?  Laf!”

But Lafayette has already uttered what must, in his mind, be the perfect parting shot to suit his dramatic exit.  He doesn’t respond before taking off, leaving John and Peggy staring-- first at Lafayette’s disappearing back, then at one another, then back to the spot where Lafayette had last been visible before rounding the corner.

“Well,” Peggy says.  “That was…”

“Something.”

“...Yeah,” she agrees, sounding dazed.  “What did he say?  Something about regrets…?”

“‘Je ne regrette rien,’” John quotes, somewhat distractedly-- he’s still trying to piece everything together, and anyway, who the hell quotes Edith Piaf?  “It’s, uh, it means ‘I regret nothing’.  There’s this song…”

John doesn’t finish the thought.  Is that Washington’s car at the end of the street?

“Shit,” he mutters.  As he moves back toward the storefront, Peggy falls into step with him.

“What?” she asks.  “What do you mean, ‘shit’?  What’s going on?”  

John eyes the grey sedan as it pulls closer.  He’s actively resisting the urge to pace back and forth-- hopefully his boss won’t notice his agitation.  “Washington let Laf close the store last night,” he tells Peggy.  

“So?”

“Wash let Laf close the store last night,” John repeats, more slowly, in an _are-you-following-this?_ kind of tone.  “Then Laf went to Atlantic City.  Laf doesn’t have any money.”

A look of realization blooms on Peggy’s face.  “Oh.   _Oh._  ‘Shit’ is right!”

“Yeahhh,” John says, dragging out the word.  

Peggy thinks about it for a moment.  Then, she grins and bumps John with her shoulder.  “Whatever it is, it’ll be fine,” she assures him.  “I mean, it can’t be that much.  And besides, since when is Wash ever mad at Lafayette?”

She has a point with that last part, but John could just as easily counter it.  Since when would Laf ever steal from Washington?  The dude had more or less worshipped the ground their boss walked on from the moment he’d set foot in Revolution Records-- and that was _before_ Laf went from couch-crashing to guest-room crashing to being more or less adopted by Washington.

So, even though Peggy kind of has a point about Washington’s endless tolerance for Laf’s antics, John’s not entirely at ease.  Still, Washington is parking his car now, which means it’s time for him to change the subject.  He leans into Peggy, reciprocating her earlier shoulder-bump.

“Did you really just say ‘shit’?   _Twice?_ ”

“So?” she says, sounding defensive.

“Aww,” John croons.  “My baby girl’s first curse word.  I’m just so-- proud--”  It’s hard to sound paternal and teary-eyed when he’s trying not to laugh, and harder still when Peggy punches his arm.

“I swear all the time!” she protests, blushing.  “And anyway, I was quoting you.  Jerk!”

“‘Jerk?’ Is that seriously the best you got?” he counters, raising an eyebrow.  This time, Peggy launches herself at him, and John laughs breathlessly as he fends off her attack.  He’s got his forearms up in front of his face, protecting himself against the well-deserved onslaught, when he hears a car door slam.

“Mister Laurens,” his boss says.  No, not says, _intones_ \-- George Washington has a voice that is made for intoning things, all somber and serious-- but Peggy doesn’t let up.

“Sir?” John manages, still laughing.

Washington gives a long-suffering sigh, but there’s a fondness in his voice that’s at odds with his exasperation when he says, “Mister Laurens, don’t hurt Miss Schuyler.”

“But sir-!” Laurens yelps.  “She’s hitting me!”  Peggy cackles and tweaks his ponytail.  He swats at her half-heartedly, turning imploringly to Washington.  “You’re seeing this, right?  This is bullying!”

But of course, the man isn’t seeing it, since his attention is on unlocking the shop’s front door.  By the time Washington turns to face his errant employees, Peggy’s gone wide-eyed, hands up, palms forward: the baby sister, too impossibly innocent and sweet to be at fault.  John’s used to the phenomenon-- he has sisters of his own-- but it’s different this time because he knows that Washington’s not about to tell him how _disappointed_ he is, and how as the oldest he should _know_ better.

“Now, children...” Washington chastises mildly, shaking his head.  John could swear that the man’s smiling just a little as he pushes inside.  Good.  This is good.  No matter what Lafayette did, no matter what they’re in for, it’s going to be fine.

Then the phone rings.  

The noise is startling, loud and shrill in the quiet store.  John starts, stumbling a little.  His gaze snaps immediately to Washington-- did he notice?-- but the man is still striding purposefully ahead, toward his office in the back room, with his less-than-dutiful employees at his heels.

The phone rings a second time.

This time Washington turns around.  “Peggy.”

“Yeah?”

The man hesitates a second, looking at Peggy as though he can’t believe he actually has to say it.  “Phone,” he prompts, underscoring the command by gesturing meaningfully at the counter, eyebrows raised.

“Oh!  Phone.  Right.”  Peggy leaps forward, grabbing for the receiver.  “Revolution Record Exchange, open ‘til midnight!  Oh, hi… yes he is, just a sec...”

John fiddles anxiously with the too-long cuffs of his cardigan.  He feels, suddenly and irrationally, like he’s in a sitcom scene, the kind where a character’s on the phone, only you know there’s nobody really on the other end.  It’s a stupid thought and he’s not really sure where it comes from.  Maybe it’s Peggy’s chirpy tone, or the way the official store greeting-- Seabury’s idea, of course-- always sounds cheesy to him, like the start of some corporate-mandated script.

“It’s for you, sir,” Peggy says to Washington, palm pressed over the phone’s mouthpiece.  “Someone from the bank..?”  Except for the half-second that her eyes flick nervously to John, she’s doing a pretty good job of acting casual about the whole thing as she hands the phone over.  

Well, casual until Washington’s cell phone rings.

‘Startled’ doesn’t really begin to describe Peggy’s doe-eyed face as she ducks out from behind the counter, trading places with Washington.  Thank God their boss isn’t looking at either one of them anymore, because John’s probably got the same deer-in-headlights thing going on.  He knows as well as Peggy does that this particular annoying, repetitive ringtone is the one Washington uses for Seabury.

Without speaking-- they’re back on that work-spouse wavelength again, John thinks-- he and Peggy head for the back room.  Neither one of them say a word until the door swings closed behind them and the sound of Washington’s clipped, irritated voice, constantly cut off by what must be interjections on the other end of the line, drops away.

“What do we do?” Peggy asks.  “Should I call Herc?”  She starts rummaging in her messenger bag for her cell phone.

“Already on it,” John answers, thumbing through the recent call log on his own phone.  Peggy watches him, chewing on a fingernail, as the phone rings once, twice, three times before Mulligan answers.

“Bro,” he says in a voice that’s thick with sleep.  “It’s not even nine.”

John sighs for what feels like the hundredth time in the few hours that he’s been awake.  Someday, he will convince Mulligan that nine o’clock is _not early_ , but today is not that day.  “I know, I know.  I’m sorry.  Listen, I need you to find Laf.  I can’t really get into it now, but he did something kinda impulsive--”

“Laf?  You don’t fuckin’ say,”  Mulligan mutters, still sounding cranky.  “This is seriously why you’re calling--”

“ _Yes_ ,” John snaps, cutting him off.  “Look, trust me.  He just took off, didn’t say where he was going.  If you see him, keep him away from the store, alright?  Washington’s going to be--”

“Laurens,” Peggy hisses, motioning toward the door.  

“--really pissed.  Tell Laf--”

“Laurens!”

“Shit.  I gotta go,” John tells Mulligan.  “Just… lemme know when you find him?”

“Yeah, yeah.  I got you, man.”  

“Thanks,” John says, and ends the call.  He and Peggy have just enough time to arrange some semblance of a normal tableau-- she throws herself onto the couch, flipping through a magazine, he makes a desperate grab for the sketchbook he keeps under the counter, turning to a random page-- before Washington shoves the door open with more force than is strictly necessary and heads straight into his office.  John is very determinedly Not Making Eye Contact, but from what he can see in his peripheral vision, Washington’s normally staid, stoic expression has gone full-on stormy.

There’s an odd, tense moment, a sense of everything hanging in the balance.  John keeps his head down, adding unnecessary shading to an old sketch.  He pretends he can’t hear Washington opening and closing drawers, rummaging through his desk, but it’s pretty hard not to when the only other sounds are his pencil scratching at the thick sketchbook paper and Peggy flipping magazine pages at irregular intervals.  He doesn’t reach for his cell phone when it starts vibrating, but he does glance at it long enough to see who’s texting him.

HERCULES MULLIGANNN:  
_k, tracking lafs phone  
_ keep u posted

John will never know how Mulligan does this shit, and he’ll never ask, either.  He knows better than to think he’ll ever get a straight answer.  Still, it’s somehow comforting to know that at least they’ll be able to find Lafayette before he makes any more stupid decisions, although it’s really fucking creepy to think that Mulligan is probably keeping tabs on him, too.  Before he can spend too long on that particular train of thought, the door to Washington’s office flies open.  

“John.”

He doesn’t flinch.  He doesn’t, but he can’t quite hold Washington’s gaze, either.  The man is frowning down at him, eyebrows furrowed.

“Sir?”

“John,” Washington says in slow, carefully measured tones. “Where is Gilbert?”

“I don’t know,” John replies, trying for mild confusion.  Thank God it’s a question he can answer truthfully-- there’s no way he can just _lie_ to Washington.

“You don’t know,” Washington echoes.  Somehow, impossibly, his heavy eyebrows knit even more tightly together; his scowl deepens, and something tightens in John’s chest.

“Is something wrong, sir?” Peggy asks, drawing Washington’s focus away long enough for John to remember to breathe.

He could _kiss_ her.

Washington considers the question carefully, looking between John and Peggy.  His lips press into a thin line as he observes them for three long seconds, four, five, six...

“... no,” he says finally, just as John hits seven.  “Alright, you two, get to work.  We have a lot to do today.”

“That’s right!” Peggy exclaims.  “ Isn’t tomorrow… Thomas Jefferson Day?”  She says it like she actually expects them to believe she could have forgotten.  In spite of the morning’s events, John rolls his eyes at her evident glee.

It’s the last straw for Washington, who stalks back to his office, muttering, “Thomas Jefferson Day.”  The door slams behind him.

“Well,” Peggy says, eyeing the closed door.  “Shit.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, confession time, people. I don't normally publish things five minutes after I finish writing them.  
> I don't normally publish things at all, if I'm going to be really honest.  
> That said, I'm off from work and school for the remainder of the holiday break and I'm way too impatient to share this with y'all, nevermind the fact that I know exactly zero people in this fandom and thus have no beta. So, uh, enjoy! And don't mind any glaring errors!

**Author's Note:**

> Look, guys, I don't feel that I have to explain my art to you.
> 
> ... except for the part where I kinda want to tell you all about it. Okay, so, count on the plot taking a lot of its cues from "Empire Records," plus lots of twists and detours more suited to your favorite revolutionaries. As a first foray into actually participating in fandom, I'm planning on having a lot of fun with this and not taking myself very seriously.


End file.
